Nights spend in sorrow…
by PiercedBlueCat
Summary: John is having a really hard time coping after the fall. Trigger warning: selfharming thoughts, severe grieving.


**Nights spend in sorrow…**

_Summary: John is having a really hard time coping after the fall. Trigger warning: selfharming thoughts, severe grieving._

_Un-beta-ed! _

_Would love to hear what you think and if anyone wants to do a beta let me know. I wanted to do this in British English, so I'd like to know about any spelling or grammar mistakes._

_Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC and the guys who invented them. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my english, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

Two month... it had been two months since... Sherlock jumped…. John had still severe problems saying it mentally, not to mention out loud, that Sherlock is … yeah, well… still whenever he tried to say it he felt the tears threatening. People kept expressing their condolences but he didn't want to hear it.

His PTSD was back full force. Sherlock's bloodied body on the sidewalk triggered old memories and created a full load of new ones. … all-day things constantly reminding him of the event. Afghanistan had at least been a different country, different smells, sounds, and landscapes. London had been good for him after his injury. Familiar noises, smells, weather, like no hot burning sun on sand, stony earth or clay. No smells of foreign cuisine, spices, vegetation, explosives or guns. The contrast was relaxing, a good amount of triggering things weren't just there. He hadn't realized it back then but now the contrast was clear. London was a mental minefield now. He avoided places he had been with Sherlock because it simply hurt, which were quite a bit. More severe were things that were consciously or unconsciously associated with the event itself or the hours around it. The noise of a pigeon's flapping wings or mountain-bikes now causing panic attacks or far worse - flashbacks. Triggers surrounded him wherever he went.

One day - when he was on his way to a therapy session - a guy on a mountain-bike had sped past him in a hurry. He'd had a paralysing panic attack right there and had sat down in an house-entrance because he was to shaky to stand any longer. He didn't know how long he had sat there but finally the inhabitant of the house had come back from picking up her daughter from the kindergarten. She had treated him like a drunk maniac at first until John had outstretched his trembling hand with his phone that was already dialing his therapist. He knew he was beyond speech at that moment, part of his mind replaying his collision with the bike, dearly hoping she would understand and help. He spiraled down into reliving the seconds after Sherlock had fallen in brutal clarity, technicolor and slow motion, helplessly watching an not being able to change anything. Reliving his shock, panic and helplessness and hurt again. The aftermath of the flashback left him disoriented and shivering in new arisen terror. The woman must have spoken to the therapist cause the next thing he knew was that she was there, taking him into a car and driving him home. He felt like an broken idiot.

He had come back to 221b a week after the funeral, not really able to be there but being even worse when not there. He couldn't touch or move anything Sherlock had left so the whole flat was in exactly the same condition as the day Sherlock had left. Mrs Hudson had started to pack away Sherlock's experiments from the kitchen but had unpacked them when John had declared he would come back. Sitting on the sofa his therapist had tried to start removing triggers with a RapidEyeMovement using therapy-form. Which was basically trying to override the bad path of thoughts with good or at least new ones but it hadn't worked. He panicked again, the mere thought of the sound of a mountain bike making him nauseous and there was no way he could concentrate on replacing the association. He thought she was kind of hasty with all her treating methods… not the methods themselves, just how she threw him into them one after another though he didn't feel ready at all. When she had seen the flat she had urged him to clean it up and thing about getting rid of Sherlock's stuff. At that point he had doubted if she was the right person for this job at all, again. But the thought of trying another therapist and having to explain all his sorrows and problems from the beginning mad him hesitate. That day she had given him a prescription for more potent anti-depressant drugs and sleeping pills. The latter he hadn't even touched and the ADs weren't helping at all. Though he was aware that he might just not be able to recognize what they did him good because it was just too dark around him.

He hurt…. He hurt more than he had ever done in his life. Living through Afghanistan and being shot had been really bad and he had thought he had seen the bottom. But now he realized this was far far worse… and that things are never so bad that they can't get worse.

He hadn't improved at all during the last weeks. He still felt numb, in shock, and on the verge of crying every waking moment… and at night… the nightmares.. there was no sleep without them. Sherlock dying and leaving him in a thousand different scenarios, him always being a bystander with tied hands. The constant threat of tears made him feel vulnerable and he started to hate himself for his weakness once more. Sherlock would have not approved this at all. His self-loathing creating even bigger pains than already present.

To the hurt of loss added the pain of Sherlock's disclosure. The public was convinced he was a fraud but Sherlock's words hadn't convinced him. He had never seen the man cry but he had heard him cry during that goddammit telephone call he still tried to sort out. Several things Sherlock had said nagging at him constantly. The conversation repeating itself in his mind over and over again, analysing, reviewing, listening, ever present pepetitions of their words.

It was another rainy night and he was sitting in front of the fireplace. He had sat there quite some time… maybe since the morning? He realized he hadn't done anything today than get up and drink a coffee and sat there… just sat there, staring blankly ahead. He needed the bathroom he assessed.

He picked up the paper on his way back to the comforter. A stab of physical pain his him when his gaze fell upon a short article of a solved crime containing a sarcastic line that no swindling would-be-detective had helped in solving it. He threw the paper through the room, deciding to stop reading the lousy bullshit at all. It was a waste of time. There was no difference if he knew what was happening in the world or not. People were suffering and dying and crimes were committed. Those things happened, no matter if he knew about them or not. It wasn't doing them any good if he knew, his sympathy was wasted. The only thing resulting was he was suffering with them and in that way causing him to be more depressed. He frowned when he realized that Sherlock had said similar things several times… and that he now understood wholeheartedly what he had meant. Oh god, he was starting to act like Sherlock… what had happened to Sherlock in his past that had led him to this decision? He realized sadly once more how little he knew about Sherlock's past. .. and that this hurt, too.

He decided to stop reading the paper and watch telly…. He had already stopped writing the blog and stopped working. Mycroft had informed him that he was paying the rent now, not leaving an opportunity for him to protest. He had not been in any state to make a normal conversation the day Mycroft had visited him last. He had urged him to call if he needed anything and John wondered if he was still under surveillance now that he was without the main factor of the former surveillance.

He sat in the comforter unmoving…. Breathing heavy with the memories of Mycroft's visit. He forced back his tears once more.

Some time later Mrs Hudson came up the stairs. She had been wonderful during the past weeks, comforting, caring, a warm and helpful presence. The total opposite of what she had said after the funeral, maybe back then she had just tried to express her anger for Sherlock leaving him. Anger…. Yeah, that was there, too. Quite overwhelming sometimes it caught up with him regularly…. And that hurt, too.

Mrs Hudson knew better than to touch anything. She went directly into the kitchen.

"John?" she asked while rummaging in the fridge "Have you eaten at all in the past 24 hours?…. You know you should!…. John?"

John looked up and saw her standing in front of him. Frowning he looked up.

"I'm going to bed. Good night." He stood up and trotted towards the bathroom. He heard her sight and make her way down the stairs in her usual pace.

That evening he entered Sherlock's room… he had been in here several times for a few minutes before but mostly had fled when tears threatened to come. Today he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, feeling the need to let the grieve out before he would choke on suppressing it.

When his gaze fell upon a single sock lying half hidden behind the open door the wave of mental pain hit him with unexpected force. He gasped for air with the impact of it. Violent sobs shook him and before he knew how to sustain a minimal level of control over this a sharp pain jerked through his bad leg. Overwhelmed by the onslaught he slid limply from the bed and collided heavy with the floor. He dimly realized his body was shaking with mental and physical pain.

He laid there unable to fight the tears or anything else… finally realizing that there was nothing left fighting for. He was felt broken and pathetic. He didn't know how long he had been laying there paralysed but finally he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Pain woke him. His leg hurt… and his bed had never been this uncomfortable before. Unnerved when he realized he wouldn't be able to fall back to sleep he opened his eyes… and blinked… he was on the floor. Well, that explained the missing comfort at least. How had he ended up on the floor? He sat up, his back to the bed and moaned when the first memories of the past night crept back into his mind. He rested his head on the bed. It was lunch-time he realized by the sounds from outside and his gaze went to Sherlock's alarmclock…. That was next to the bedside lamp…. The not lightened bedside lamp… he wondered if he had switched it off or if Mrs Hudson had been in here. Had she seen him like that… oh god, not that on top of all things…. Or worse: Mycroft? He looked around… there was a pillow on the floor… had he taken Sherlock's pillow to cry into it? … if he did he couldn't remember… well one more embarrassing thing to ask Mrs Hudson about. He slowly stood up, sucking air in when new pain went up his leg.

He limbed to the bathroom and then started making coffee.

He had just put the coffee into his cup when he heard Mrs Hudson come up the stairs. How to ask without giving away anything?

"Good morning." He offered when she hesitantly came into the room.

"Good morning, my dear." She smiled motherly. "Are you up to help me do a few shoppings after breakfast?"

"Sure."

"Say in half an hour? So you have time for a nice hot shower."

I need a shower? John wondered… probably, he didn't know if he showered yesterday or the day before… or even…. "Ok."

She turned to walk back down the stairs.

"Thank you for switching off the light, by the way."

She stopped in her tracks. "Which lights?"

"I thought you switched them off." John tried to explain.

"I didn't switch of any lights in your flat, haven't been up here since you went to bed last night."

"Was there someone else? Mycroft?" John wanted to know.

"Nobody. It was quite boring the whole day… Don't forget to shave. See you then." She was gone.

No one here. Well, he must have woken up sometime during the night and switched it of himself. Great, now he was forgetting what he did… Maybe the higher level of the ADs was playing havoc on his mind… wasn't uncommon to be a bit mixed up the first days.

He showered and shaved - it was really necessary - and went to get the groceries with Mrs Hudson.

The next three days he was able to keep at least a minimum of daily routine. He even watched some TV. Sarah came by - he suspected to make sure he was still alive - for a purely platonic friendly visit but it was an awful meeting. He couldn't think of anything to talk about and when she started asking about Sherlock he threw her out as friendly as he could manage.

The day after that he spend entirely prone on the sofa. Plagued with headaches and his leg throbbing. Mrs Hudson brough up warm apple pie. He slowly tried to eat some while she sat with him and tried to converse but after a few bites it made him nauseous and he put the plate on the coffetable for later finishing. She told him about her day and ranted about some TV-show. He tied to listen to her and was glad his body didn't try to get rid of the bit nourishment he had eaten. He knew how bad an idea it was not to eat properly added probably to his depression. It was just making him feel worse and he couldn't stand worse at the moment.

The next day passed as the ones before until Molly came by in the evening. When she started to ask how he felt and what she could do to help him he exploded. He yelled that he was sick of everybody asking and pitying him and that he wanted to be left alone. She fled. He looked the door of the flat, to prevent Mrs Hudson to come in and rail at him about how he had treated people who wanted to help, but he just couldn't stand it right now… it hurt too dammit much.  
He wondered if there would ever be a time in his life when he wouldn't hurt every minute of his miserable existence. And he wondered if he would have the strength to survive until that day. He hated himself for being rude to Molly. She was a kind soul and he tried to gather the courage to call her to say sorry. But he couldn't.

He grabbed his phone, the sleeping pills from the dining table and a bottle of water and headed for Sherlock's bedroom. It looked the same he had left it. Pillow on the floor, sock behind the door, dirty laundry at a stool, unfinished book at the nightstand….. he bite his lip fighting tears again when he wondered what Sherlock had looked like reading in it and what he had thought about what was written in it.

He threw the stuff on the bed and went over to Sherlock's shelf, not really with an aim he took an antique looking book out of it, Kafka. There was a dedication inside, obviously from one of Sherlock's teachers. Tears welled up his eyes and he let them flow. He took another book, it was oddly light for such a thick book when he opened it he sucked in air in shock. There was a vial and some unused sterile packed syringes, a tourniquet and some alcohol wipes. Oh god… they had looked for those several times, never knowing where Sherlock had hid the stuff but suspected he had some secret storage. Not a really clever or creative hiding place to be honest, he had awaited more from him, he realized. Why had nobody found those during the drugs bust Lestrade had performed? A hollow book, classic place. Or maybe it was a distraction from the real stuff? He looked at the label: Morphine…. He had expected something else?

His phone lit up with a new received message.

He placed the open book-box on the nightstand and read the text.

Can you come in tomorrow, I need your help with the murder of two tailors. GL

_No. _

He thought about adding more words but after fifteen minutes staring at the display he just send it like that. What for should he do this. He was no use. Sherlock had been the brilliant mind, he was useless without him. And he didn't want to be remembered how he missed it solving crimes with Sherlock.

He thought about texting an apology to Molly and decided to get it over with and do it. He sat down fully on the bed and leaned against the headboard.

I didn't mean to be rude, it wasn't fair to unload on you. I am sorry. JW

He wondered what Sherlock would say if he knew John sat in his bed and had to press his hand over his mouth to stop the sobs surfacing… but after another minute they oozed out of him and he didn't fight them. Dammit. He wanted the hurt to stop. Just stop. He couldn't go on like this. He was loosing his mind. He hunched over and cried once more…. It lasted an hour before he numbly and exhausted raised his eyes again.

He looked right at the bottle of sleeping pills that were laying on the bed next to his head and his phone. He sat upright an read the label. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to take them… he hurt too much to care and feared there was no way to get better by continuing like this. He was tired…. So very tired. Tired from a lack of sleep… and tired of everything else.

The phone beeped.

We are just worried about you, John. Let us help. Hugs, Molly

…. And he was causing others pain who had to see him suffering helplessly. He was a burden…. As helpless as he had been watching Sherlock stand on that roof. Desperation mixed with sorrow and he took the bottle of pills and opened it. He opened the waterbottle, too… and tried to shake a pill into his hand but they had blocked the opening and when he shook the thing harder almost all of the pills spilled into his hand.

He stared at them. A thousand thoughts chasing each other in his haze of agony of grief. This would be so easy. Without a conscious thought he calculated that twelve of the capsules would be a lethal dose, thirty to forty minutes after digestion. Twenty were in the bottle, enough to make sure.

He stared at them. …

Large white capsules…

The end of his pains…. His gaze shifted to the vial of morphine on the nightstand, that was even better for ending any pain.

What was it that held him back?

Was there something at all? Tears ran down his face.

He sat there crying silently for another half hour asking himself for the reason of his hesitation.

Realizing finally that he was in fact pretty much out of it by now but that the only little detail about this whole thing was: he had seen him jump, he seen the mangled body on the ground, the blood on the pavement, he had felt no pulse …. but …. something was nagging …. rebelled against the thought that he was gone… his rational mind told him he was dead but there was something he couldn't describe…. Something that was holding him back right now…. Sherlock would kill him if he came back and John had killed himself…. He sobbed once more but it was a mixture of a sob and a chuckle…. He was loosing his mind…. definitely… going nuts here. He should knock himself out or call for help before this got any weirder. … call for help… No way… they'd institutionalize him and put him on suicide watch. … and to be honest.. he couldn't blame them for that.

He swooped all pills back into the bottle except for one which he gulped down with some water. It was a bit of work since they stick together with the sweat of his hand and his tears. He raised from the bed and took the book-box with him. He was shaky and dizziness swept over him when he stood up. He took some deep breaths and went over to the shelf putting the book back in the space it had vacated before.

He stumbled back to the bed with some tissues. A new headache was forming and he blew his nose to be able to breath properly for a minute. He laid back on the bed with his hands over his eyes.

"Please Sherlock, don't be dead…. Please…." he whispered again.

He rolled onto his side when new tears formed. He let them fall.

Ten minutes later he felt exhaustion take over and he slipped willingly into the drug induced sleep.

Half an hour later a slender figure stepped out of the darkness of the flat and entered the bedroom silently. The man sat on the edge of the bed, staring down on the haunted doctor. A gentle hand gripped a wrist to take the pulse while the other one held the bottle of pills in front of the lamp counting the remaining pills.

Sherlock sighted when he came to the conclusion John had only taken one pill… and that his pulse was not good but ok for someone who's had a hell of an evening. Sherlock's eyes were swollen red.

He had been watching. At first via the surveillance equipment the flat was littered with and then personally because he couldn't stand the possibility that John might be in danger and he was to far away to help. He had rushed to the flat in panic after John had sat down on the bed with the secret hiding-place-book. Sherlock had convinced Mycroft to send the signal of the surveillance camera to his smart phone. Mycroft had understand the need to be prepared to interfere was evident and had tried to persuade Sherlock to let him go to stand guard but Sherlock had ended the discussion by leaving.

Now he sat at his best friends bedside silently crying. What had he done to him in order to protect him…. ? Moriarty had reached at least one oh his goals, he had made them both hurt more than they ever had before in their lives… and had prevented that they could comfort each other and had enhanced their agony by that additionally.

John whimpered in his sleep and Sherlock rested his hand against his forehead and gently stroked his brow.

"I am so sorry…" he whispered.

He sat there for the rest of the night, barely moving while comforting and guarding his hurting friend's sleep. At the early signs of dawn he slipped back into the dark and vanished.

It was in the early hours of the morning that John woke up. He'd had a dream…. But he couldn't grasp it. He needed the bathroom he realized. Extricating himself from the sheets was quite a task. He was still half under with the damn sleeping aids he realized. He managed finally and hobbled to the bathroom.

He returned a minute later and when he climbed back into the soft warm bed an image from his dream returned. It had been warm, too… but different. He crawled back under the duvet. He must be nuts to sleep in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock would throw a tantrum if he'd see it. Sherlock … he had dreamt of Sherlock… and it wasn't about his death…. But he couldn't remember anything else except that it wasn't a nightmare and that something had felt safe and comforting. He wondered if this was an improvement before slipping back into a deep healing sleep that lasted for more than another twelve hours.

Two days later he still couldn't remember his dream other than having been comforted. The only glimpse a warm hand taking away the pain. He carried the thought in his heart, hidden away from anyone so that it couldn't be damaged (especially hidden from his therapist). He remembered the vial in Sherlock's shelf and decided it needed to go, too dangerous after what thoughts had crossed his mind. He had scared himself a bit with his actions but they seemed still reasonable. But he'd better remove any tempting things in case he stumbled back into another episode of utter desperation. He took the book out of the shelf, opened it and stared at it in disbelieve. The vial was gone. The syringes were gone, the book was empty in fact. Had he dreamt that they had been there? No way, the book was there, the book was hollow, how would he know about the book if he hadn't found it with it's contents? He was confused. Nobody had been visiting him since the disastrous meeting with Molly.

The only person knowing that it was there was either one who had watched him find it or the one who had put it there.…the only one who would watch him was Mycroft … or … but he hadn't dreamt of Mycroft comforting him, hadn't he?

He clasped his hand over his mouth to suppress a sob and went to his knees gasping with the resulting perception and the tiny spark of hope that glowed somewhere in the dark though it was beyond his grasp at the moment.

_Note:_

_I was diagnosed with PTSD five years ago after quite an odyssey and eight years of trying to cope with it alone without knowing what I was dealing with. The last two years of that being treated by unskilled (in the field of PTSD) threapists for depression. _

_I am grateful that a lot has changed about treatment and awareness of PTSD and depression in society though it's still far from enough. _

_Everybody experiences the sympthoms different and there are quite a lot. _

_I don't have any medical knowledge, just the stuff you learn by having to cope with it. _

_The approach how to treat PTSD seems to be different in countries all over the world and even in clinics within one country. _


End file.
